


Starburst

by wickersnap



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Dancing, Drinking, Hopeful ending?, M/M, Minor Angst, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Pining, Songfic, it's really light angst I'm terrible at sad things, now with a surprise second chapter, physical contact is Anakin's love language, spoiler: they get hugs!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25809922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickersnap/pseuds/wickersnap
Summary: Anakin’s gaze is soft and deep, an endless sky of calmed turmoil, and it’s there that Obi-Wan realises that he could go for it. He could. And Anakin would welcome it. He’d encourage it, even, probably part his pretty lips and press into Obi-Wan’s kiss just as desperately as Obi-Wan would.He realises that Anakin will love him, unconditionally, with all of his heart.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 16
Kudos: 144





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr request](https://silverxsakura.tumblr.com/post/626007492378443776/hi-if-you-do-songfics-can-you-do-an-obikin-let) from anon: Hi! If you do songfics, can you do an Obikin "Let You Love Me" by Rita Ora?? Thanks so much!
> 
> Thank you for the request! I hope this is a satisfying interpretation!

_See, I wanna stay the whole night_

_I wanna lay with you 'til the sun's up_

_I wanna let you inside_

_Oh, heaven knows I've tried_

_What's the matter with me?_

_* * *_

“I’m glad we’re here,” Anakin tells him. 

“You are?” Obi-Wan asks. “I thought you’d be raring to get back out there.”

A quiet sigh escapes Anakin’s lips, red and curled in a small and somewhat wistful smile. Obi-Wan catches himself watching him and looks away hurriedly. Of all the hundreds of decorations and people in this huge, glittering ballroom, of course his attention will remain solely on the man at his side.

“It’s hard,” Anakin admits eventually. “There are so many people suffering out there, yes, but we were never trained to do this. I barely know how. I’m shocked my men trust me as much as they do. It’s nice to have a night away from it all. Not having to think.”

Obi-Wan hums his agreement and forces his gaze out over the hundreds of couples swirling around the floor in perfect time. Despite the staggering numbers, the hall is large enough to not only accommodate them but accommodate them comfortably, enough space between individuals and groups that a pleasantly cool breeze from the open balcony arches can sweep through the humid warmth rising around them.

A hand appears before him and Anakin steps into view, smiling more easily now and seemingly oblivious to the effect his new formal robes (black, of course) are having on his old Master; a gift from their hosts and a sure test of Obi-Wan’s self control.

He takes Anakin’s hand and lets him lead them onto the dance floor. Ahsoka hides her smile on the sidelines as they join the carousel of movement, seamlessly sweeping into the next spin and taking up the beat. 

For the next few moments all his mind seems to be able to focus on is the feel of Anakin’s hand in his and on his waist. His glove bunches up the unfamiliar, slippery material of Obi-Wan’s pale outer robe and proves a solid weight in the curve beneath Obi-Wan’s ribs, a reassuring touch and a tempting glance into what could be. The fingers of his left hand curl around Obi-Wan’s gently, like he’s something delicate or precious, and on the next turn he’s pulled more securely into Anakin’s warm embrace. Anakin’s gaze is soft and deep, an endless sky of calmed turmoil, and it’s there that Obi-Wan realises that he could go for it. He could. And Anakin would welcome it. He’d encourage it, even, probably part his pretty lips and press into Obi-Wan’s kiss just as desperately as Obi-Wan would. 

He realises that Anakin will love him, unconditionally, with all of his heart.

And Obi-Wan… Can’t. 

He can’t do it. 

Oh, he _could,_ he knows he could—wishes, even—but he can’t let it happen. He can’t let himself bare his soul like that. They are Jedi, bound to their Code. More than that, it seems historically that Obi-Wan only ever brings pain to those he loves. 

It’s a shock to the system, the realisation. It’s a jolt of fear straight up his spine to the awful crick in his neck that’s bothered him since practically Geonosis.

They’ve stopped on the edge of the floor, Obi-Wan no longer able to step gracefully around the dance like he should. Anakin is looking at him worriedly now, and it’s all he can do not to let himself fall into his arms. Because he _can’t._

“Sorry,” he stumbles out, tearing his gaze away from Anakin’s gorgeous one and retreating his clammy hands back into his chest. “My apologies Anakin. I think—I think I may need some air.”

“All right,” Anakin says easily. Gently. “Is there anything I can—?”

“No,” Obi-Wan cuts him off. _“No,_ thank you. I’m just going to—to—”

It’s not graceful, it’s not entirely polite, but Obi-Wan pretty much turns tail and runs. He doesn’t look over his shoulder as he nears the open arches leading to the many ornate balconies. He doesn’t see Anakin’s alarm or worry or yearning love following him. But he feels it. He feels it and he runs anyway.

_I wish_

Obi-Wan lets his gaze settle on the back of Anakin’s strong shoulders as he stares stoically out of the viewport on the bridge of the _Resolute._ Captain Rex stands at his side, Cody at Obi-Wan’s own, several paces back from them, and still Anakin commandeers his whole and entire attention. The way his dark tunics form to his shoulders and cinch beneath the belt at his waist. The soft curtain of slight curls that refuse to tuck behind his left ear no matter how often he tries to pin them there. The flow of his emotions in the Force, down their too-long-unsevered bond, and how calmly they swirl around them now for all their intensity.

The juxtaposition of it all is dizzying. 

Admiral Yularen strides up to Anakin’s elbow and makes his report. Anakin nods and thanks him for whatever news he brings—nothing urgent, then—and turns as one with Rex to head back down the bridge towards Obi-Wan and Cody.

“We’re free to go,” he says lightly as he reaches them, relief seeping into their bond like an inkstain of gold. “Snips has it all under control.”

Obi-Wan raises his chin to level him with one of what he knows to be his more annoying looks, the patient _I told you so_ ones so oft used during Anakin’s apprenticeship. 

“I told you she’d be fine,” he says.

“You tell me many things, Master, but I think any time you say the word ‘fine’ we’ve all learnt to be wary.”

“Oh?” Anakin grins as he walks past to the turbo lift. Obi-Wan raises a pointed brow at him. “Is that true, now.”

“Oh yes,” Anakin scoffs. “Just ask Cody. I’m pretty sure he ignores everything you say anyway.”

Obi-Wan turns to Cody with a mock air of expectation. Cody tilts his head slightly to the side and betrays nothing but a slightly raised eyebrow. 

“Not at all, sir,” he says. “That would be insubordination.”

Rex’s unsubtle snicker is not lost in the noise of the lift doors whooshing closed behind them all.

“Now, are you going to finally go back to your rooms and get some rest, Master?” Anakin’s eyes are fixed firmly to his bitten nails as he inspects them, but the way he holds himself practically screams his tension without any need to look into the Force. Rex and Cody carefully pretend they’re no longer listening to their conversation (and for all he knows, they may very well be having their own private one over coms). Obi-Wan sighs and looks straight ahead at the grey durasteel lift walls.

“You know how much work I still have left to do, Anakin.”

“Yes, and I’m sure it can be done tomorrow.”

The doors snap open again and they file out into the corridor leading to the troop barracks. If Obi-Wan argues the point lightly, good-naturedly, the last thing he’s going to admit is that it’s to distract him from the glances he knows Anakin is stealing. From the thoughts he’s sure he knows are what’s swirling so chaotically behind his sky-high shields. Rex and Cody bid them goodnight and peel off to their respective rooms, leaving them, him and Anakin, finally alone in the corridor.

 _“Obi-Wan,”_ Anakin sighs, smiling gently. “We won’t be anywhere near Coruscant for another few days at the least. You _need_ to sleep.”

They’re standing outside the door to Anakin’s room. The temptation of curling up in a warm bed, as soft as they come for military commission, is slowly taking firm root in his mind. Anakin is still watching him intently and Obi-Wan swallows as he holds his heavy gaze because he knows that look—he _knows_ it and he’s _weak_ for it. He looks away. Anakin’s hand comes up to trace the line of Obi-Wan’s arm and his voice drops to a low, gut-wrenching rumble.

“Or I could always drag you to your bed myself and hold you down until I know you won’t run away.”

Immediately Obi-Wan’s traitorous thoughts have heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, conjuring an image of himself tucked neatly in bed against Anakin’s chest with warm, strong arms curling around him and ankles hooked around his own and hands wandering astray and—

No.

He clears his throat.

“Thank you for your _concern,_ Anakin, but I think I know what’s best for myself,” he says more sharply than he intended to. He almost misses the way Anakin flinches back just the slightest amount, obvious more by his spike in anxiety than anything else.

The weight of possibility behind his gaze drops away immediately and he looks to the floor, fists tightening where he crosses his arms inside the billowing sleeves of his robe. “Sorry, Master. I overstepped.” He turns away and keys open his door, pausing briefly again before disappearing inside. 

“I wish you a pleasant night,” he says, “though I do wish you would take better care of yourself.”

The door is closing behind him before Obi-Wan can even fully process the hurt he’d let slip in his hasty retreat. He’s left standing and staring at the unmarked durasteel door for Force knows how long, longer than is appropriate, he’s sure, reeling from the turn the night has taken.

It feels like a long time before he gets back to his own quarters, even though they’re barely twenty paces down the hall. He drops heavily onto his bed in a daze of regret and wishes… He doesn’t know what for. Everything. Nothing. For it all to just—fade away.

The Code is clear: no attachments. The thought of ever losing Anakin, a new warning he sees in the recent closing off and recoiling, rips at the flesh of his heart until he’s sure it’s going to tear in two. He supposes that that’s _that_ failed, but what good is it admitting it to himself when he can never act on his wants and wishes? When the Council will exile them for even the hint of a thought in that slippery direction? A look that lingers too long is dangerous enough. A touch that strays more intimately than it should is practically a death sentence. Exile sentence. Whatever.

The point is, he can never, ever let it happen.

The look on Anakin’s face as he shut himself away makes Obi-Wan hate himself for it all the more.

That night Obi-Wan sleeps without a single thought spared for his outstanding paperwork.

_Oh, I wish_

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Their two battalions have been on Coruscant two days, probably, but judging by the time he’s lost sitting in this shitty booth in the back of kriff-knows-where on this shady level means he’s probably heading into the earlies of their third rotation soon. The lights are dim and strobing through a truly eclectic collection of colours, enough along with the tasteless music to probe at the mild headache he’s been nursing over a… a number of drinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been slouched here when a tall humanish figure appears at the opening of the booth and crosses their arms.

“So, this is where you’ve run off to, huh?”

And then the man is sliding into a seat next to him and Obi-Wan is doing a fairly good impression of not being as drunk as he absolutely is and— _oh,_ he thinks, as his heart swells with joy. _Anakin._

“Running implies the want to escape something,” he grins. “What could I possibly want to escape?”

Anakin snorts into the drink that has inexplicably appeared in his hand. “I can think of a fair few things.”

“Oh?” Obi-Wan’s head rolls sardonically as he tries to appraise Anakin through his blurring vision. “Go on, then.”

“Well, the Council, for a _glaring_ start,” Anakin says. “Master Windu’s disappointment. Master Yoda’s karking gibberish. The fact that Cody is about three cycles away from roping the medics into tying you to your bed and drugging you. You know. The _war._ All that paperwork you insist on leaving until the last minute. Me.”

“You,” Obi-Wan echoes. “Now _why_ would I be escaping you?”

Anakin sets his glass back on the table and stares into it for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he finally decides. “Anyway, I let Rex and Ahsoka know where we are. I don’t plan on incapacitating myself tonight though, do you?”

“Nope,” Obi-Wan lies. “None of that here.”

And yet the thing about Anakin Skywalker, is that when he says he doesn’t plan for trouble, it seems to be all the more interested in finding him. He drinks himself through the long lapses of silence between them while Obi-Wan just stares at the table and thinks about disappearing. He complains loudly about the incompetence of just about anyone he isn’t close with, and almost ends up in three bar fights. His emotions begin to roll from him more and more freely the more alcohol he consumes, and the growing _want love can’thaveneed_ that ricochets between them through their bond begins to amplify and echo to an almost unbearable level. Obi-Wan’s head spins with it, his skin feeling tingly and too-hot all over, his robes chafing against his neck and his boots crowding his feet too much, oddly. He wants to be out of here, he wants to be in Anakin’s lap, he wants to live with him and next to him and inside him and to all the sith hells he wants to just _forget._

“I don’t know what you want from me, Master,” Anakin ends up whining into his robes and arms and the table as he presses his head against all three. “I just, you know, I want you to, like, open up. You’re so… in your head all the time. I want to help. I want you to trust me.”

 _And the rest,_ Obi-Wan thinks tiredly. Anakin huffs as if he’d said it out loud and thuds his forehead against the sticky plastic tabletop. 

“I knew you knew,” he maybe mumbles. It’s very hard to hear in here. “You know about it and everything and you hate me. I’m sorry, Master, I really am. I just wanted you to love me again.”

“Well, isn’t this a jolly scene,” announces another new voice. Obi-Wan’s head jerks up to see a swimming vision of maybe Quinlan Vos and grins.

“Quin!” he tries to say. He’s not entirely sure he manages it.

“Fuck off,” Anakin grunts.

“Wow,” Quinlan says. “What the hell have you done to him, Obi?” He begins hauling Anakin out of the booth, propping him up in one arm while he reaches for Obi-Wan with the other. “Come on, you giant bloody lugs.”

Anakin stumbles as they begin to walk, and honestly Obi-Wan is still only pretending he’s faring any better. Bar patrons move out of their way fluidly and carelessly, completely uninterested in them and their obvious Jedi robes.

“Didn’ know you were back, Quin,” Obi-Wan thinks it’s worth mentioning.

“What has he done to me,” Anakin mutters over on the other side of Quinlan. “What has he done? He won’t kriffin’—he won’t—he won’t let me _love_ him, that’s what!”

Quinlan sighs and shoves them a little roughly into the cool and smoky air outside the bar entrance. “It’s possible you’ll be fighting that battle for a long, long time Padawan.”

“Not a padawan,” Anakin automatically grumbles.

“You’ll always be his padawan, kid. Always, no matter whether you run away to the dark side or finally convince him to fuck your brains out.”

 _“Quinlan,”_ Obi-Wan protests breathlessly. Staggering through the streets is not such an easy affair after he’s however many units in. It’s nothing to do with the sudden vision of Anakin, robes in disarray, face-first over his desk on the _Resolute,_ not at all. Not even when the scene changes to Anakin straddling the occupied co-pilot’s seat on the _Twilight._ Something in the back of Obi-Wan’s addled mind is still just about awake enough to be suspicious of whose visions these actually are in the first place.

“Useless,” Quinlan might be muttering. Obi-Wan doesn’t know what about.

_What’s the matter with me?_

He wakes up in bed. In _his_ bed, fully clothed. With six feet of similarly robed Jedi Knight clinging to him like a cephalopod. And a banging fucking headache.

It takes a while for him to wake up properly. He takes stock while he struggles with his hangover, noting that his boots have miraculously disappeared and so have Anakin’s, and that he’s resting in a comfortable circle of arms with a nose pressed to his neck and hair tickling the cheek above his beard.

He should move away. He should be pulling himself away, far away from Anakin’s arms and his broad chest and lips and hands and he’s _not._ He’s not moving away. He’s not moving, he’s not moving, he’s not, he’s not, he’s _not, he’s not,_ and—

And Anakin is waking up.

Obi-Wan lifts Anakin’s arm from around his waist and almost throws it aside as he wrenches himself off the bed. Blood rushes to or from his head—he can’t tell and doesn’t care—and makes him sway unsteadily on his feet when he lurches blindly towards the door. His boots are on the floor and he grabs them and struggles to shove his feet in while the only thought going through his head is how much he needs to _leave, right now._ He barely notices that no one’s in the corridors, that it’s already the next evening and too late for anyone to still be up. He heads for the communal showers in the training halls and doesn’t look back. He can’t. He _can’t._

Can’t he?

When he finally manages to strip and haul his sorry arse under one of the showerheads it’s a blessed relief. Cool water sluices away the grit and sweat and the fuzzy, imagined film all over his body left by the residual alcohol in his system.

 _Can’t he._ The words swirl around him in an endless loop. The only arguments he manages to summon are barely half formed and drowned out by the way every belief he’s ever held in the Order is currently being uprooted violently and mercilessly. 

Why can’t he? It’s not like he knows anyone else who actually follows the Code to every letter. In fact, he knows of several people who blatantly flaunt it, Anakin included. His… _attachment_ wasn’t even particularly within his control, so why should he torture himself over it if none of the others do? _Because it will all end in tears,_ comes the sudden and unwelcome reminder. _As it always does._

But… But maybe it won’t. Maybe this time… Anakin’s strong. Skilled. He’s Anakin. If anyone can handle their life together, it’s him. It’s always been him. They have ten years of proof behind them. Surely that’s enough?

Suddenly Obi-Wan comes back to himself, and he’s standing outside the door of his room again. His hair is still a little wet and dripping onto the shoulders of his robes. He can feel Anakin still inside, awake. Obi-Wan takes a deep breath in, holds it, and lets it out slowly through his nose. The question rattles back to the forefront of his mind. _Why can’t he?_ Maybe he would be better off asking what the hell’s wrong with him. _It’ll all end in tears._ Oh, but he _wants._

Before he can calm himself, dredge something resembling a coherent thought from his head, the door in front of him opens. Behind it stands Anakin, his hair in messy, adorable disarray and his robes half hanging from his collarbones, exposing an awful lot more skin than Obi-Wan is prepared for. He has dark circles under his eyes and a guarded expression that borders on angry.

“You ran away,” he says. Accuses. His voice is level but steely, and for the first time in the last half-hour Obi-Wan’s thoughts go completely silent. He can’t think. He can barely breathe. Anakin watches him steadily.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan begins. Falters. He’s vaguely aware that he’s started fiddling with his hands in his nervousness. Anakin’s expression softens immediately and he straightens, stepping back from the doorway so he’s no longer looming. Obi-Wan clears his throat of his debilitating emotions and tries again.

“Anakin,” he says. “There’s something I need to tell you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin Skywalker is closer to his former Master than any other, and so he understands. Truly, he does, but that does not make it any less painful to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected continuation from Anakin's perspective, by a kind request in the comments, and this time to I wanna be yours by the Arctic Monkeys :')  
> I hope this is satisfactory, I really couldn't leave them in such a sad place

_I wanna be your setting lotion_

_Hold your hair in deep devotion_

_At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean_

_Secrets I have held in my heart_

_Are harder to hide than I thought_

_I just wanna be yours_

_* * *_

When he thinks about it, it’s quite obvious what’s going on here.

At first he thought Obi-Wan hadn’t picked up on it. He thought maybe he’d been too subtle, that he’d not gotten his point across as well as he could have. The realistic part of his mind had scoffed at him and said, _that can’t be right,_ and it was true. If there was one thing Anakin Skywalker should be known for being bad with, it’s subtlety. 

He’s known for years, really, that most of the time he has about all the sensitivity of his prosthetic cybernetic arm. He’d seen it in Padmé’s alarmed expressions those few years ago whenever he’d said _anything,_ had realised then that whatever the words coming out of his mouth he nearly never failed to be too forward, too obvious, too _much._ He’d felt it in the wary gazes of anyone who overheard, of even the people he merely walks by on the streets or in bars and cantinas. 

Anakin Skywalker sticks out like a sore thumb and is blunter than Rex when presented with a ridiculously outlandish plan. So he knows, then, that not only does his Master know exactly what’s going on, but that he’s actively avoiding reciprocating.

This also is not a new concept to him. Padmé had once straight up shut him down, but until then and after then, when his dumb as shit arse did not get the message, she had pointedly not acknowledged him and veered the conversion towards safer topics. Ugh, just thinking about it makes him want to skewer himself on his lightsaber for his stupidity.

Past regrets aside, Anakin thinks he knows what’s happening. He’s fairly certain about it, actually, because he’s attuned enough to his Master both ambiently and through their bond that he’s quite proficient at skimming and sensing his emotions and most basic thoughts. He’d felt it on Florrum, of that he’s certain, when he had half-drunkenly flirted and touched and _implied_ several mugs of alcohol down in Hondo’s banquet hall. They’d had the perfect excuse to ignore all of it the next day, of course, after their fiasco with Dooku and their own incompetence. But he’d felt it, promisingly so. Attraction, excitement… Guilt.

 _Guilt._ That’s the problem here, and of that Anakin is more than certain. At this point, he’s willing to bet he knows his Master better than anyone else. Master Windu is too removed, too high on the Council. Quinlan Vos is barely reachable on a good day. Bant is back in the Temple tending to the wounded day-in, day-out, with rarely any time to sleep let alone take social calls. Cody is brilliant, it’s true, but he’s only been around for the last year or so, and the same can be said for Ahsoka. And Qui-Gon… Anakin thinks he may be part of the reason itself.

Qui-Gon Jinn is dead and long gone and still sorely missed, even after more than a decade. Anakin knows Obi-Wan blames himself, has always and probably will always, even if he did defeat the Sith and rise above the call of the Dark entirely by himself. He wasn’t quick enough, wasn’t good enough to save Master Qui-Gon, and that’s what he tortures himself with. 

Anakin’s also known Jedi Siri Tachi, and the deep-rooted friendship between her and Obi-Wan that had drifted into something neither would allow themselves to have. He knows it broke them apart, and he knows Obi-Wan feels like he needs to shoulder the full blame for that as well. _It’s not fair,_ he wants to cry. _It’s not fair that you blame yourself for things no one else is brave enough to._

And then, of course, there’s the Duchess of Mandalore. Obi-Wan never talks about her, wouldn’t even mention the planet before this war came about. Now Anakin catches him telling his men tales of Keldabe and Sundari, of the people and the plants and the culture with a slightly wistful look in his eyes. Beneath it all is his ever-present guilt, as if sharing the feelings he’d confessed to, intoxicated after one memorable soirée when Anakin was still his padawan, have tainted Kryze irrevocably.

Obi-Wan blames himself for everything and everyone, and Anakin understands what that means. He understands that Obi-Wan is terrified of bringing his self-proclaimed curse down on anyone else he’s close to, be it other Jedi or his company. Anakin, as possibly the closest of them all, feels like despairing.

And he hasn’t even touched on the Code. Thinking about it is just depressing. He thinks, maybe, he won’t bother. It’s clear enough as it is.

_Maybe I just wanna be yours_

Doubts continue to swirl through Anakin’s mind, heedless of all of his well established desires and certainties. _Do you want me?_ he wants desperately to ask when Obi-Wan smiles at him and the corners of his eyes crease visibly over the com, a private look for just the two of them. _Am I yours?_ He already knows the answer to that, and it’s _yes, forever,_ whether Obi-Wan wants to acknowledge it or not. Anakin has been his pretty much since he realised what it was to love, never mind his past discretions and selfish divergences.

 _Are you mine?_ he pleads breathlessly in his own head whenever Obi-Wan’s gaze or touch lingers just that little bit too long. When it, on the rare occasion it strays from the norm, strokes through Anakin’s hair, over his scar, over the join of his prosthetic to his elbow with a reverence usually reserved for ancient texts and trinkets. _Are you mine, will you let me be yours?_

And then he’ll turn away and Anakin’s heart will free fall in his chest, much like it’s doing now in their deserted command centre. Obi-Wan moves around the holotable to enhance a particularly cruel section of the Separatists’ cliff-borne outpost, his fingers slipping hastily from the back of Anakin’s neck.

“You’ll not find anything you haven’t already seen,” Anakin tells him quietly. “You’ve been over that a hundred times already.”

“There’s always something I could have missed,” Obi-Wan insists, distracted. “We can’t let this go wrong. If we alert them to our presence—”

Anakin sighs. “Bad things will happen, yes, I know. But it’s not like you’ll see anything new as you are. We’ve been here _hours.”_

“Every minute spent wasted is a minute we don’t have, Anakin…” 

Anakin stops listening. He knows this lecture inside out—has given it himself, on multiple occasions, even to High Masters—and frankly has no patience for it now. He steps around the table too, close at Obi-Wan’s back so he can place gentle hands on a shoulder and a hip.

“Obi-Wan, please,” he murmurs. Obi-Wan’s ducks his head in a small, abortive motion. His hair flutters under Anakin’s breath. “Everyone’s already gone to bed.”

“C-Cody’s still on the bridge, doing his job.”

“Because he’s _on shift,_ Master. You are not. Please, leave this here and I promise you can look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow.”

Obi-Wan is still for several beats. Loud, thudding ones emanating from Anakin’s own chest, he thinks. Long enough that he wonders if Obi-Wan’s not falling asleep where he stands. Hesitancy and a small, barely-there pin prick of arousal echo through the Force; if Anakin had been a lesser being, he swears he would have missed it. And then Obi-Wan shudders and pulls away, turning his head as if to look at Anakin over his shoulder but not quite able to raise his eyes enough to meet his gaze. Anakin drops his hands from grasping empty atmo and tries not to miss the warmth of his Master’s robes under them. 

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees shakily. “Yes, all right.”

“Would you like me to bring you some tea?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t look up but winces at his words as if he’d spoken too loudly. “No, no that won’t be necessary, thank you.”

“All right,” Anakin says, watching him go. “As long as you actually get some rest.”

“Yes, thank you Anakin, you’ve made your point perfectly clear.”

When the door hisses closed behind his Master’s retreating back, Anakin feels all of a sudden as if this dark, claustrophobic room is too loud, too bright, and much too empty. He sighs and lifts a hand to press down on his temples, turning off the holotable with the other and making his way blindly from the room.

One day, all of this is going to drive him absolutely mad. One day.

_I wanna be yours_

“So, this is where you’ve run off to, huh?” Anakin slides into the booth and tries not to let the fondness in his exasperation slip down their bond. Obi-Wan rolls his head along the back of the bench to look at him, breaking into a serene smile that almost, _almost_ makes Anakin wonder if he’s not completely trashed. If not for the fact his emotions are rolling into the Force with more ease than they ever do sober, he might have fallen for the ruse.

It’s almost overwhelming, what he taps into when he looks. Obi-Wan is not in the best of ways, desperately exhausted and depressed, and the comforting flare of affection that swells at the sight of Anakin is absolutely steeped in guilt. Anakin reaches up to snatch a bright orange drink off the tray of a passing waiter and takes a large gulp of it. Bitter.

“Running implies the want to escape something,” Obi-Wan says, grins, and Anakin aches to reach out and _touch._ “What could I possibly want to escape?”

Anakin snorts and sneers down into his drink and lets a whole slew of thoughts run through his mind’s eye without latching onto any particular one of them. The majority of them are horrifyingly self-centred. He’s glad he’s not yet taken total leave of his senses.

The Council, he begins with. The obvious. Master Windu. Master Yoda and his less-than-useless advice. Cody and the entire of the 212th’s medical. The big one, of course: the _war._ Admin. Planning. Requisitions. 

Anakin himself.

“You,” Obi-Wan repeats. “Now _why_ would I be escaping you?”

Oh, would he like a list? Anakin’s thought up any and all possible reasons, examined them from every angle, overturned them two-and-a-half thousand times each. Would he like a list? Anakin can give him a list. 

Never mind. He probably already knows them.

“I don’t know,” he lies. “Anyway, I let Rex and Ahsoka know where we are. I don’t plan on incapacitating myself tonight though, do you?”

“Nope,” Obi-Wan agrees, and Anakin can _feel_ how giddy he is with his stupid ‘certain point of view’ half-truths. “None of that here.”

_I just wanna be yours_

And honestly, that might be the last thing he truly remembers of the evening. He has a feeling he tried to hot wire a random droid at the bar, or maybe he was arguing with the owner, and he knows someone else definitely turned up, but he can remember kriff-all after that. 

He doesn’t even know how they got home, so waking up in Obi-Wan’s bed, alone, is too much like a smack in the face.

At least he has all of his clothes on. He doesn’t think anything he’d regret forgetting happened. The sheets under his outstretched arms are still warm, messy and thick with Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force. Anakin spies only one pair of boots by the door. His own.

Well, if Obi-Wan feels the need to run away from his own rooms then Anakin is not going to hurry himself into leaving. He’ll be waiting here until his Master gets over whatever freak out he’s going through this time. 

Anakin hadn’t lied when he’d said he had no intention of getting smashed last night. He really hadn’t meant to, promise, it was just that the unavoidable silences and awkwardness had bordered on suffocating, and the only thing he’d really found to do (that had kept Obi-Wan nearby) was drink. It had certainly helped with the crushing hopelessness that’s crept up on him over the past year.

Once dragged out of bed and somewhere less likely to lull him back to sleep, the ’fresher is a sweet relief from the grime that feels like it’s encrusted his body. Sweat, alcohol, humidity, pheromones all coating his arms, his collar, his face, and all of it sluiced away down the drain at his feet. Force, what a blessing to be back at the Temple with real running water. His hair drips limply onto his shoulders, refusing to dry even when he impatiently towels at it and tries to wring it for every last drop. As if he can squeeze out all of his shame and humiliation with it.

He’s back in his crumpled robes by the time there’s a knock on the door. He feels a little silly standing barefoot in Obi-Wan’s rooms and answering the door to a polite knock from Obi-Wan himself, but there’s no mistaking the spitting supernova of anxiety on the other side of the durasteel.

He walks over to the panel and taps the release, leaning on the doorframe in an attempt to mask his exhaustion.

“You ran away,” he says before Obi-Wan can even open his mouth. States it, really. His tone is too flat. Too emotionless. He’s so _tired._

Obi-Wan looks tired too, fretful and nervous. He opens his mouth a couple of times, struggling for words, holding Anakin’s gaze for longer than he has in… years.

“Anakin,” he croaks, and Anakin swallows at the brokenness of it. Words seem to fail him once again and he takes up his nervous habit of picking at the damaged skin of his hands. Anakin’s eyes drop instantly to the movement and it’s then that he realises how tense he is, how he’s looming out of the doorway and most likely glowering. All the fight drains from him on command, uninvited and slinking away with its tail between its legs; Obi-Wan clears his throat and pulls himself together. “Anakin, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Anakin blinks once. Good news or bad news—what are his odds? Rejection? A polite request or a harsh demand? An order? An admonishment? Nevertheless he indicates for Obi-Wan to enter—enter his own rooms, stars this is stupid—and wets his lips in anticipation. 

Obi-Wan nods and walks past him. His shoulders are set with a tension that carries his body stiffly across the carpeted floor, as if Anakin might suddenly turn around and start shouting. He’d never, not at Obi-Wan, not unless there was something seriously wrong. He feels that in the depths of his soul. So he waits patiently as Obi-Wan, freshly showered too by the looks of his flushed skin and the damp shoulders of his robes, takes a stiff seat on his sofa and glares fiercely at his clasped hands out in front of him. Anakin has done so much of the talking, has pushed and pushed and pushed, that it’s high time he let Obi-Wan say what he needs to. He’ll wait a week if truly necessary. But something tells him he won’t have to.

“I never wanted you to get the wrong impression, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says. Anakin’s heart does a complicated thing in his chest, but he remains silent. He knew this was a possibility. He _knew_ it. He did. Obi-Wan continues, regardless. “Sometimes I feel I lead you to believe that I don’t care about you. I want you to know that that isn’t true—no, it’s the farthest thing from the truth. In fact, I don’t think anyone could be more wrong. You were my beloved Padawan, and if I’m honest you may always be, no matter if the Council make you a master or grant you a seat in their circle. Your achievements and power far outrank the title, of course, but you were _my_ padawan, Anakin, and mine alone. I cared for you like a brother, then a friend, and then…” He trails off, staring into the middle distance. Anakin stands in silence, barely daring to breathe as he waits for what could possibly come next. His brain is working so quickly to come up with all of the probable rejections Obi-Wan could give him that he hears none of them, nothing but the rushing of blood in his ears and the silence settling over the space between him and Obi-Wan.

“I don’t know what happened, Anakin. Maybe it was inevitable, I truly cannot say, but I know… I know you feel it too.” He looks up at this, his grey eyes so intent on Anakin’s that the raw power hidden behind them makes him feel faint. “I know you do, because you’ve tried and tried to reach out to me, and I have brushed you off each and every time.”

Suddenly he stands from the sofa, left hand bracing his right elbow as he takes on his signature pose of consideration at the window, stroking his beard softly. Force, how Anakin wants to know just how it feels beneath his fingers, how it might feel scratching across his own face when they—

“At first I thought I was imagining things.” He chuckles, gently, a small curve of a smile highlighted in the midnight glow of Coruscant’s skylines. “I’m sure you know, my dear, that you are not terribly skilled in subtlety when it comes to matters you deem important enough to take such extreme risks. It took me an embarrassingly long time to convince myself it was not just my heart projecting my own desires onto you. And I want you to know… Well, you need to know, really, that I… I did not want to reject you so harshly every time.” He pauses, and in the dim reflected light Anakin sees him close his eyes, take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I feel terrible, knowing that I have made you feel such sorrow and hurt for so long. Truly, Anakin, I had never even entertained such a possibility before that I… Well, I’m sure you know.”

“You shut down,” Anakin suggests quietly. He steps forward. One step, a second, a third and a fourth until he’s at his old Master’s shoulder at the window. Until he can see his face appear beside Obi-Wan’s in their reflection. Until he can see the pain in Obi-Wan’s downcast gaze and reach out to run gentling hands over his shoulder blades. “You shut everyone out, I know. It’s not your fault.”

“How, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks in strained and palpable disbelief. “How can it not be my fault?”

“Because you blame yourself for everything already, Master. I know what you’re thinking.” Anakin lowers his head until he can brush his lips over the heated skin of Obi-Wan’s neck. “You think that anyone you touch will collapse under your weight. You think by loving them you welcome death and destruction into their lives.” He kisses over the small trail of freckles leading from under the collar of Obi-Wan’s robes to disappear just beneath his hairline. Obi-Wan shivers but does not move away, and if anything tips his head just so to allow Anakin to continue. “I have news for you, Master, if that is still what you think; I have been by your side for eleven years and counting, and I am still standing. I love you as much as I did the day I realised that I would never find anyone as wonderful as you, even if I searched the galaxy my whole life.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighs, little more than a pleading prayer on a rush of breath.

“I am not weak, Master, and we have faced certain death together more times than I can even remember. But that is why we are still here—we were _together._ I feel I am nothing without you, nothing but an empty man wandering the skies with neither purpose nor direction.”

“Anakin, do not say such things,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “You are a Skywalker, Anakin, your mother’s son, and you are the most powerful Jedi I’ve ever known. You are so much more than you know, dear one, and you mean everything to me.”

Anakin tries to reply, but the words string themselves up inside his throat on sticky threads that refuse to be spat out. It’s a lot, now that they’re here, to hear such confessions from his Master with the pristine mask. His Master who would not hesitate to bow to the Council even if it would break his back to do so. _His_ Master—his.

“I love you, Anakin,” whispers Obi-Wan into the night. “Truly, I do. That you deserve to know, and I no longer have any wish to keep from you the truth.”

“Continue talking like that and you’ll be Master Yoda’s successor in no time,” Anakin jokes weakly through the thick burn of unshed tears. His choked laugh is more of a sob, pathetic really, but it has Obi-Wan turning around and finally, after so long, taking Anakin’s face between his hands.

“Oh, Anakin,” he says softly, eyes flicking between both of Anakin’s while his thumbs stroke soft reassurances into his skin. “Never think that a day goes by that I have not loved you.”

“I love you, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says. His vision is weak, watery from his overwhelming happiness and relief, but he would not miss the soft, brilliant smile that graces Obi-Wan’s face for the end of the universe.

“Come here, my darling,” Obi-Wan sighs. Anakin finds himself pulled into the warmest and most loving of embraces, both of his Master’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck and his face buried safely in silken-worn linens that smell of incense and saffron. “I am sorry I have taken so long to find my way to you. I am _so_ sorry. I love you with every fibre of my being, I swear it to you.”

When Anakin feels stable enough to lift his head again, Obi-Wan releases his hold easily, his hands returning to either side of Anakin’s face. Anakin brings his hands up between them too, grateful now that he’d foregone wearing the usual glove over his prosthetic for dexterity. He smooths his fingers, both inorganic and real, over the kind slope of his Master’s cheekbones and bearded jaw. It’s unlike anything he’s ever allowed himself to even dream of before. They sway inwards, together, drawn by a gravity affecting nothing beside themselves, and in a moment Anakin’s eyes are sliding closed again and his lips are pressing against another’s, warm, sharp with spearmint and endlessly, endlessly soft.

Anakin kisses Obi-Wan for the first time, certainly not the last, and the Force finds itself at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat to me on [tumblr!](https://silverxsakura.tumblr.com/)


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